Meanwhile, in the headquarters building of the Bountiful Planet in the Halo universe:
"Yes, Father!"
After Fulgrim and his brothers responded to their father's words, the real-time communication ended, and the grandeur of his private office returned to its serene state.
Standing tall, Fulgrim was dressed in an impeccably tailored, luxurious uniform adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs, exuding an air of nobility and poise.
Complementing his refined attire was his silver hair, flowing smoothly over his shoulders and back, shimmering under the soft light like liquid starlight, as though time itself had bestowed upon him a layer of eternal brilliance.
Fulgrim raised his head, scanning the expansive office. The walls were decorated with faint golden engravings and the sigils of the Imperium. The gentle glow from the chandelier above enveloped the space in an atmosphere of solemnity without sacrificing elegance.
"..."
He exhaled softly and strode toward his office chair, leaning back slightly as he sat down.
The chair's broad backrest supported his unyielding posture, while the floor-to-ceiling glass windows reflected the depth of his gaze.
To the north, the nightscape of the capital city on the Bountiful Planet unfolded like a dazzling painting, where neon lights intertwined with the shadows of towering buildings to form a vibrant sea of urban life.
Hundreds of aerial traffic lanes were coursing with maglev vehicles, flowing like streams of light that carried the prosperity and order of this planet.
But Fulgrim's gaze pierced through it all, as though searching for something amidst the endless darkness of the night.
His mind was still replaying the words of his father, recounting the events that had transpired in the Warhammer 40k universe.
All the truths had been laid bare before him, like an indelible shadow haunting his heart.
The other version of himself...
It was an image of ugliness, desecration, and utter disgrace.
First, he had slain Ferrus Manus, his once most cherished friend in the Warhammer 40k universe before he had even "fully descended." Then, he severely injured Roboute Guilliman, nearly driving the symbol of order and strategic wisdom into utter despair.
These events struck Fulgrim's heart like the relentless hammering of a forge, filling him with an uncontrollable mixture of anger and humiliation.
He could not accept that in another universe, he had fallen to such depths, becoming a traitor who defiled every shred of honor.
Fulgrim could almost envision that evil version of himself—a twisted grin on his face, wielding a blood-stained blade, declaring endless betrayal and destruction.
"Utterly ridiculous…"
Fulgrim murmured to himself, his tone laced with an almost imperceptible chill.
His hand clenched slightly, the knuckles turning white, but moments later, he gradually loosened his grip, returning to his usual composure and elegance.
Yet within those razor-sharp amethyst eyes, a cold fire ignited, like a hunter in the dead of night vowing to locate his prey and tear it apart.
In his heart, he made a solemn vow. His gaze grew even deeper and sharper, as though it transcended the vast cosmos, staring directly at the version of himself that filled him with shame—
If given the chance, he would end himself.
The night outside remained as brilliant as ever, but within the stillness of this office, Fulgrim's determination was like an unsheathed blade, silently cutting through the tranquility.
——
Meanwhile, on the sunlit side of the Bountiful Planet, in a bustling metropolis, life continued as it always had.
Though this city lacked the splendor of the capital with its space portals and towering administrative buildings, the Bountiful Planet, as a critical hub in the Halo universe's political, economic, and military core, had undergone significant development by Atlas and the Human Imperium. It remained a beacon of prosperity.
In the city center, towering mega-structures reached toward the skies, adorned with holographic advertisements that shimmered in vibrant colors. Their lights reflected off the building façades, illuminating the city like a vision of the future.
The aerial roads and flight corridors formed a complex web, connecting every corner of the metropolis.
Maglev vehicles wove through this network in perfect order, transporting tens of thousands of citizens and goods like an ever-busy aerial nexus.
In stark contrast to the city's steel jungle, the outskirts retained vast expanses of farmland.
The descendants of the original colonists had not forgotten their "roots."
Through the use of advanced agricultural machinery and automated robots, the planet's most fertile lands provided a reliable supply of food for the Bountiful Planet and its surrounding star systems.
From afar, the verdant fields resembled a natural masterpiece, embracing the steel city with a rare touch of tranquility.
Beyond the urban periphery stood a sprawling "new recruit camp."
This was the training base for the Sons of Humanity Legion, specifically designed to screen and recruit new soldiers.
From a distance, teenagers could be seen undergoing rigorous physical and tactical assessments on the training grounds. The entire camp exuded an atmosphere of discipline and order.
The Imperium understood that the cultivation of the next generation of soldiers, particularly the Astartes, was vital to humanity's future survival and prosperity. As such, this recruitment camp was not merely a military facility but a gateway to greater glory for countless young hopefuls.
This city embodied prosperity and hope, serving as a key piece in the Bountiful Planet's development blueprint and, by extension, the entire Halo universe's grand vision.
Steel and fields, technology and tradition converged here, painting a magnificent portrait of the "Imperial Era."
Of course, not every teenager successfully passed the recruitment trials at the camp.
While many arrived full of hope, completing the initial screenings with high spirits, the subsequent detailed evaluations often revealed that their unique physiology was incompatible with the genetic implants required to join the Sons of Humanity Legion.
This meant they were destined to be rejected as "non-compliant" candidates, unable to become the legendary heroes they had idolized.
These young hopefuls entered the recruitment camp brimming with anticipation, eager to undergo the medical examinations performed by the Legion's Apothecaries.
But when they learned that their bodies were incapable of withstanding the gene-seed implantation and surgical enhancements, the light in their once-hopeful eyes dimmed almost instantly.
A wave of disappointment swept over them, and their parents could only lead their disheartened children away from the place that had held their dreams, returning home to resume their ordinary lives.
In the brightly lit, spacious hall of the camp, a boy named Chirak Oran, who appeared to be no more than fourteen years old, stood nervously. His youthful face still carried traces of innocence.
His eyes were filled with anticipation but also tinged with deep anxiety as he awaited the final results of his evaluation.
At the front desk stood a female android clad in an elegant uniform.
Her appearance was impeccable, her expression calm. The uniform, primarily black with purple accents and golden threads, perfectly embodied the solemnity and aesthetic of the Sons of Humanity.
She glanced down at the screen displaying the test results, then slowly raised her head, her simulated eyes showing a trace of complex emotion.
"I'm sorry, child," she sighed softly, shaking her head.
Her tone was calm, yet it carried a rare gentleness. "According to the follow-up evaluations, the Apothecaries of the Sons of Humanity Legion have determined that your body cannot endure the gene modification process.
This isn't your fault; it's a matter of physiological limitations."
Chirak's hand trembled slightly. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His eyes began to redden.
The android continued, "While you cannot become an Astartes of the Sons of Humanity, this doesn't mean you lack the opportunity to serve the Imperium.
Focus on your education for now. Once you reach adulthood, you can apply to join the Imperial Naval Infantry.
If you perform exceptionally, you may even be selected as auxiliary personnel for the Legion. That, too, is a great honor."
She paused, her tone softening further. "Don't lose hope, Chirak.
The Imperium requires talents of all kinds—soldiers, engineers, educators. Every position contributes to humanity's future.
You can still bring glory to the Imperium and humanity in your own way while securing a better life for yourself and your family. Today's outcome is not the end of your journey."
Despite her encouraging words, disappointment had already consumed Chirak's gaze.
His shoulders slumped instantly, his demeanor steeped in dejection.
His parents embraced him, attempting to console their disheartened son, their eyes betraying a regret they could not hide.
The hall's lights continued to shine brightly, the Imperium's dragon sigil radiating solemn golden brilliance.
Yet, for Chirak, it felt as if the world had lost all its color in that moment.
After all, on the Bountiful Planet, the towering, armored figures of the Sons of Humanity were the idols of every child's dreams.
These warriors embodied the pinnacle of honor.
They served the Emperor, the Imperium, and humanity, standing as symbols of courage and fearlessness, always charging into the most perilous battles.
Their presence, whether in holographic theater productions or in the heroic tales recorded in books, had inspired countless young people.
Chirak Oran was no exception.
Since he was young, he had believed with unwavering conviction that one day he would join the Sons of Humanity Legion and become a celebrated hero.
It wasn't just his dream; it was also the hope his parents had for him.
Chirak's father, once the head of security for the Atlas Corporation, had transitioned to a role as a captain in the city's police force after retiring, thanks to his outstanding record and exceptional physical fitness.
His mother, on the other hand, served as the chief physician at Atlas Central Hospital, overseeing the most advanced medical facilities and teams on the Bountiful Planet.
Such a family background undeniably gave Chirak a strong starting point.
More importantly, Chirak's own performance had never disappointed anyone.
From elementary school sports competitions to extracurricular classes in kickboxing and boxing during his early teens, he had always been a standout.
Though his physique had not yet fully matured, his limbs were long, his muscles well-defined, and his reflexes and strength far exceeded those of his peers.
Thus, when Chirak applied for the Sons of Humanity recruitment trials, nearly everyone who knew him believed he would excel and become a shining "compliant" candidate.
Yet, the calm explanation from the android receptionist shattered his fantasies.
The verdict—"your body cannot withstand the modification"—was like a cold and final sentence, dragging him back to a harsh reality from his once-glowing hopes.
He tried to maintain his composure, but the tide of disappointment surging within him nearly overwhelmed him, making it difficult to even remain standing.
In the end, Chirak's parents had to gently console him and lead him out of the recruitment camp's hall.
As they left, Chirak couldn't resist glancing back at the bright and spacious entrance and the colossal emblem of the Legion.
But that symbol of ultimate honor now felt impossibly distant.
The family silently boarded a civilian maglev craft. Its design was simple, and the cabin was eerily quiet.
During the flight, Chirak kept his head low, his hands unconsciously clenched until his nails nearly dug into his palms.
Everyone he knew—his friends, his parents' relatives and colleagues—had believed he would become a member of the Sons of Humanity. But reality had proven otherwise.
How could he face their questions?
The shame weighed heavily on him.
During the journey, the scenery outside shifted from the radiant skyscrapers to the more modest residential districts.
The craft eventually descended near a mid-tier parking facility of a high-rise apartment building on the city's west side.
After docking, the family left the vehicle and took the maglev elevator to the top-floor apartment.
When the elevator doors opened, Chirak looked at the familiar sight of his home but felt no sense of comfort.
Entering the apartment, he spoke softly, "Dad, Mom, I need to be alone for a while."
Without waiting for a response, he closed himself in his bedroom.
"This kid..."
Chirak's father sighed as he stared at the closed door, shaking his head in mild exasperation. "He didn't get selected—so what? He can go into academia or business. Why take it so hard?"
"Let him have his space," his mother replied, shaking her head as well before heading toward the kitchen to prepare lunch for the family.
Inside his bedroom, Chirak listlessly removed his jacket and socks, intending to collapse into bed for a nap.
But the thought of sleeping and hastening the arrival of the next day filled him with dread, so instead, he sat at his computer desk, habitually waking the dormant hard-light screen.
He began searching for phrases like "What to do if you're not chosen as a Legion candidate?" and "Do all Legions have the same requirements for candidates?"
He even posted on online forums seeking advice, hoping to find others who had experienced the same pain to ease his own.
Suddenly, a friend request notification popped up on the hard-light screen.
The sender's username was: "For... the Emperor!! Glory!"
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